The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick

fair beard. 'I have rules, but they are simple. I ask nothing of you that I do not ask of myself.'
    'Prince David has rules like that too,' Sabin said neutrally.
    'Aye, well, I'm not so much of a saint as he is.' Strongfist matched Sabin's tone. 'All I ask is that if you drink, you keep enough wits about you to handle a sword; if you wench, you do it discreetly; if there's trouble you walk away rather than become embroiled . . .' He looked sidelong at Sabin. 'Oh yes . . . and if you go near my beautiful convent-raised daughter, expect to find your bollocks cut off and stuffed up your arse.'
    The knight's tone was conversational, but Sabin was in no doubt that Edmund Strongfist would not hesitate to act. Sabin thought of the girl that he had seen riding in Strongfist's wake. The soft glance of an eye, the glint of a dark braid. Forbidden fruit. It had started that way with Lora.
    'I swear I have no intention of touching your daughter.' Sabin made the sign of the cross on his breast to reinforce his words.
    'As long as we understand each other.'
    'I think we do, sir,' Sabin said with what he hoped was convincing sincerity.
    Strongfist's grunt of response could have been either satisfied or pessimistic, but Sabin did not pursue the issue to find out.
    They continued their journey through a world of frozen white and grey. Sabin was glad of his cloak and the foresight he had had to don the padded tunic he usually wore beneath his mail. The mail shirt itself had been heavily greased to keep out the rust and rolled in a sheepskin, which was secured behind his saddle. He had heard tales of how hellishly hot the lands of Outremer were, that a man could stew to death within his armour. Today he could not imagine such heat; he knew by the time they reached Branton, his fingers and toes would be chilblained.
    'They have weather like this in Outremer too,' Strongfist said as if reading his mind. 'In the mountains, the nights can
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    be as cold as a witch's tit, and on the high ground there is often snow.' He looked at Sabin. 'But mostly it is the heat that men remember because of the intensity and the days, one upon the other, when there is not a cloud in the sky. The khamsin wind is as hot as the fires of hell and the sun beats down on your head like a hammer.'
    'And yet you want to go back?'
    Smile creases grooved Strongfist's cheeks above the fair beard. 'It is a land of great beauty too. The olive groves are shady at noonday and the houses have courtyards with pools and fountains. The Plain of Sharon is lush and green and there is good hunting. You breathe in the dust and it becomes a part of you. I cannot tell you. You must see for yourself.'
    'My father went on crusade, but he never spoke much about the experience. He had to turn back after the battle of Dorylaeum because he was mortally sick. I know he always regretted not making the full journey.'
    'I know your father was at Dorylaeum,' Strongfist gathered the reins through his fingers. 'I was with him at the battle and a desperate one it was too, with the Turkish hordes assaulting us on all sides. We had to stand firm, hour upon hour in the burning sun. For a time, I was in the same line as your sire. We knew he was suffering, but he would not leave his position, even when he took a Saracen arrow in his side.' He looked at Sabin. 'He was a preux chevalier, your father. You should be proud of him.'
    'I am,' Sabin croaked and there was almost a lump in his throat. Usually people spoke of what his father would think of him, not what he thought of his father. 'He always regretted that he had to turn back. He never went to a priest to have his vow rescinded. When he knew he was dying, he set out again, but it was too late . . .' He broke off and clicked his tongue to the dun, urging it to a trot. Its hooves rang hollowly on the frosty ground. He concentrated on the sound, on the surge of its powerful body, on the raw cold burning his face.
    After a moment, the grey trotted up beside